


Everywhere You're Not

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-11
Updated: 2004-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another Greg and Jennifer story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy With The Perpetual Nervousness

**Author's Note:**

> This story never happened. It in no way reflects the subjects' real lives or personalities. The timeline is distorted and everything in it is either a lie, an exaggeration, or me just making stuff up. It's set in the years 1982-1986.

“I'm sick of parties,” Greg said. He scowled at his feet as they trudged down the hill. “I've got to study, and there's rehearsal tomorrow—who is this guy, anyway? I don't think I've said two words to him.”

Mike shrugged, keeping the pace with him. “I don't know. He's come out to the shows a few times; lately he's been after me to do this set for one of his art things. If someone offers me a chance to drink free booze, I'm not going to ask for his life history.”

“This is gonna blow. Can we stop and get a drink or something before? It'll be okay if I get some booze beforehand.”

“You'll have fun once you're there, as soon as you get all the whining and crying out of your system.” They got to the bottom of the hill and looked up at the apartment building. “It's just another party, buddy.”

“I know.”

“You wanna work the crowd as a team?”

“No, I guess I'll be okay.”

“Show 'em what we're made of.” Mike started up the stairs. Greg followed after a second.

The music pounded through the walls as they approached the half-open door. Greg could smell the mixture of cheap keg beer and cigarette smoke in the hallway. Mike shouted at the thin, black-haired guy guarding the door, “We finally made it.”

“Oh, hey. Nice of you to come.” The guy waved. “You're Greg, right? Henry.”

“Hey,” Greg said, offering his hand. “Nice place.” He could barely see anything; the lights were down low and there were bodies everywhere, but he felt obligated to say something pleasant.

“Henry,” someone called over the ear-splitting volume of the Feelies, “Henry.” A slightly built, brown-haired girl pushed her way through the crowd and over to the door. “One of Erin's crowd is puking in the bathroom. I'm gonna go down the street and call a cab.”

“Oh, I'm sure it'll be okay. Who is it, Annette?” Henry turned away from the girl. “Have you met these guys? They're in Faultline. This is my girlfriend, Jennifer.”

“Hi,” the girl said curtly. “I don't know which one it is, Henry, I have no idea what their names are. I'll be back in a minute. Try to make sure nothing gets destroyed, okay?”

She brushed by Mike, giving him a quick smile. Greg moved back against the doorframe to let her by. Jennifer glanced up at him. She had kind, tired eyes in an open face. She gave him the same smile she'd given Mike and moved down the stairs.

“So did you ever think about doing that set for us?” Henry said to Mike.

“Yeah, a little. I haven't really worked with installations that much.” Mike shrugged. “I don't know how well I'd do just being arty.”

“It's not just being arty...” Henry led Mike away from the door. Mike looked back at Greg and rolled his eyes.

Greg moved through the crowd over to the keg. He liked to stake out a place for himself at parties and not move unless he was dragged away. He took a plastic cup from the dwindling stack and got in line.

He scanned the crowd for someone familiar. The first few minutes at a party, before he got a drink and figured out the crowd, were almost torturous for him; he felt like he was back in grade school, asking, “Can someone play with me?”

“You can't just treat everything like it's a gig,” Mike had told him. “Just relax.”

Easy for him to say. Greg craned his head but couldn't see Mike. He could imagine him standing placidly, smiling while Henry talked at him. Motherfucker doesn't let anything get to him.

Someone tapped his shoulder. “Move along, man.”

Greg looked up. There was a huge gap between him and the rest of the line. He stepped forward and said loudly over his shoulder, “Oh, sorry. I just live in my own dimension sometimes, you know.”

He tried to gauge whether he could talk to the people in back of him, but it was a couple and they were too busy cleaning each other's tonsils with their tongues to pay attention to him. Greg sighed and went for the booze.

The drink consisted of an inch of real alcohol and six inches of foam. He wedged himself against the wall with his cup.

He spotted Mike maneuvering his bulk around the throng. Inwardly, Greg was relieved; the chances of him finding anyone to have a conversation with were looking slim. Greg figured it wouldn't look good to seem like he was glad to see him.

“Hey,” Greg said when Mike was within earshot.

“Hey. What are you drinking, soap?”

“It's supposed to be beer, but that's debatable.”

“You know, they've got booze in the back room. Come back there with me, I'll introduce you to some people.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to. And because it saves me from having to talk to them.”

“I thought you were talking to what's-his-face about the art thing.”

“I was. He's parading me around his group, cajoling me. The only thing that stops me from doing it is that I would rather shoot myself in the head.”

“What's the problem?”

“He's just...He's got me trapped in a group with some of his pretentious friends. I only escaped when I said I had to take a whiz. You gotta come back with me.”

“Oh, this all sounds fabulous, McShane. Trapped with you and a bunch of art snobs. My heart breaks through the constraints of my chest and skips about the room...”

“Will you shut up?” Mike pushed him through the crowd, into the back bedroom. There was a table lined with bottles by the window and a cluster of people gathered around it. Greg only recognized Henry and Henry's girlfriend.

“This is my buddy Greg,” Mike said to the crowd. “He's my assistant.” Greg shot him a look; Mike just rolled his eyes. The crowd said something unintelligible in unison and then turned away. Greg immediately made a sloppy vodka and Coke as he heard one of the crowd's voices become clear. It was a man's voice.

“—And what I'm saying is that Claudel must have been trying to express her frustration at what it must have been like to have been a woman artist in the eighteenth century in Nature Unfolding Herself to The Public, with the woman peeling herself out of the cocoon—”

“Wasn't Claudel,” Greg said and took a drink. Mike turned away to hide a smile. “Wasn't the eighteenth century either, and it wasn't called 'Nature Unfolding Herself,' or whatever you said.”

Six pairs of eyes swiveled towards him. The man who had spoken had the biggest Adam's apple Greg had ever seen on a human. In a patronizing tone, the tone of the Pretentious Asshole Guy, he said, “No, I think you'll find that it was Claudel—”

Greg felt himself beginning to relax. No more worrying about making polite conversation, trying to find someone he knew. He shifted into automatic. He said, mimicking the patronizing tone, “No, because it's a nineteenth century statue, not eighteenth, and it's called Nature Unveiling Herself before Science, not 'the Public.' If it was eighteenth, Claudel wouldn't even have been born yet, which is irrelevant since she didn't sculpt the fucking thing. It was Carpeaux. I don't know what statue you're thinking of.”

“Actually, you're both wrong,” someone piped up. Greg stopped mid-monologue. The one who had spoken this time was Henry's girlfriend, Jennifer, apparently back from calling the cab. She stood, her arm linked with Henry's. “It was Barrias. Not Carpeaux or Claudel.”

“It was—” And then Greg remembered that it had indeed been Barrias. “Actually, she's right.”

Pretentious Asshole Guy looked as if his Adam's apple was going to explode. Mike was chuckling (Greg made a mental note to kick his ass later) and Greg's face was hot. Jennifer looked at him calmly and said, “In the grand scheme of things though, you were more right than he was.” She unhooked her arm from Henry's and began gathering empty bottles. Greg took his drink and withdrew into the other room, where he spent the rest of the night getting quietly drunk.

The party began winding down at two in the morning. Mike made his way unsteadily over to him and said, “I'm heading out. You coming?”

“No, not yet.” Greg shrugged. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

Mike left. Greg looked around for more alcohol.

He headed into the kitchen, where he found Henry's girlfriend washing dishes.

“Oh, hey,” Greg said. He wasn't terribly sober, which helped with the nerves somewhat.

Jennifer looked up with a smile that was three parts tipsy, exhausted and amused. “Hey there, Mr. Carpeaux.”

“I'll never live that down. Where's your boyfriend?”

“No idea.” She put a mug on the sideboard. “He's around somewhere...”

“You need some help or somethin'?”

“Yeah, sure, why not? You can dry.” She tossed him a dish towel.

“I guess I should apologize or whatever.”

“No. At least you tried to put him in his place.” She shrugged. “I'm an Art major, so I have to know something about nineteenth century French sculptors. It makes me good at Trivial Pursuit.” He grinned at her; she rolled her eyes. “Has to be good for something, right?”

“Hey now. I heard that the first step to starting a successful business is knowing who Camille Claudel was, so you're on the right track.”

She laughed. “Are you an Art major, too? I haven't seen you around the studios.”

“No.” Greg shook his head. “Theater.”

“Wow.” Jennifer fluttered a hand over her heart. “A serious actor in our kitchen, oh my.”

“Oh, yeah, man,” Greg said. “I'm practically the next...” He put the glass he'd been drying on the sideboard. Talking about being an actor still felt awkward to him. “Yeah,” he finished.

Jennifer cocked her head at him. “Look, we're having another party here in two weeks. Maybe you and Mike would like to come? It'd be nice to get some people who aren't part of Henry's crowd.”

“Um, I can try. I've sort of got this thing...” There was a College Bowl meet in two weeks. Greg knew that by the time it was over and everyone got back from either the celebration or commiseration at the bar, he'd be fairly sloshed.

“Well, if you can.” Jennifer handed him the last glass.

He swabbed at it with the dish towel. “I'll try. Not making any promises.”

“Well, as long as your shaky word is your bond.” She patted his shoulder. “Thanks for the help. Get home safely.”

He staggered out the door.


	2. Taste The Floor

"I fucking knew that Coleridge question,” Greg muttered into his shot glass.

“Will you quit your bitching?” Eric, his teammate, slurred from beside him. “We won, didn't we?”

“That's not the point. You're missing the whole point.”

“Which is?”

“Aw, I don't know.” Greg gestured at Eric's glass. “What's that? What are you drinking?”

“Beer, I think.” Eric looked around the bar. “Who picked this place, anyway? I'm bored. Let's go somewhere else.”

“This is fine—oh, hey, wait. I know this girl who's having a party tonight on 19th Avenue, we could go there. What time is it?”

“I don't know. Eleven?”

“That's all right. Hang on, I gotta call my housemate, see if he wants to come.”

“Proops, there's a party happening and we're not there. This is crucial.”

“No, it'll take two seconds. Let me find a phone.” Greg pushed himself from the barstool and through the people gathered around the bar. “Coming through. Excuse me. Family emergency. Heading your way.”

He huddled over the pay phone, Eric hovering around him, and dialed his house. One of his other housemates, Amanda, picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetie,” Greg said. "It's me.”

“Greg? I can barely hear you.”

“Yeah, I know. Is McShane around, please?”

“I think he might be studying.”

“What? On Friday? Put the fucker on.”

He could almost see Amanda shaking her head. “Sure, Greg.”

He waited a few minutes. Finally Mike's voice said, “Hello?”

“What the fuck are you doing home? Come out with us.”

“Been drinking much tonight, Greg?”

“Fuck you, I'm not drunk at all. We won.”

“Good for you.”

“Look, come out to what's-his-face's place. There's a party or something, we're just going.”

“Henry? Tonight's not a good night.”

“You won't even have to talk to him. Come on, let's go there and pick up some chicks.”

“Greg, I actually have to work in the morning. An all-night drunken spree isn't on my schedule.”

“You know, you'll look back on this night in ten years and say, 'I should have gone to that party with Proops. That would have been the crowning glory of my young years—'”

“Are you done yet?” Eric shoved his shoulder.

“Shut up, I'm doing it now. Come on out, McShane.”

“You know,” Mike said, “you're not going to remember this conversation in the morning, which isn't going to stop me from making fun of you.”

“So you're not coming?”

“No.”

“Ah, crap. Okay. Bye.” Greg hung up and turned to Eric. “Let's go.”

They went down to 19th Avenue and up the stairs to Henry's apartment. There were less people in the apartment than last time; Henry was once again guarding the door.

“Hey, buddy,” Greg said, grinning. “How's everything going?”

Henry gave him a vacant smile. It was fairly obvious, even to Greg's blurry vision, that Henry had no idea who he was.

“I was at your shindig a while back,” Greg prompted. “With McShane, you know him? The big guy?”

Just then Jennifer appeared. “Oh, hey, Greg.”

“Hey,” Greg said. “I know you invited McShane too, but he's not here because he's being a pussy. We won, you know.”

“Oh, good. I have no idea what you won, but good. Come on in.”

“Jennifer—” Henry started.

She shot Henry a shut-up-now look. “I invited him, Henry. I'm allowed to invite people to our parties too.”

“Groovy,” Greg said happily before Henry could object. “Where the fuck's my friend? Eric? Where are you?”

Eric hustled up the stairs, said a quick, “Hey, how are you, nice place,” to Henry, before disappearing into the darkened apartment, leaving Greg standing alone with Jennifer and Henry.

“Want a drink?” Jennifer led Greg into the tiny kitchen. “It must have been some victory. How long have you been drinking?”

“Eh, I don't know.” Greg peered around the kitchen. There was a small painting on the wall beside the refrigerator, impressionistic but colorful, with violent golden lines streaking through a dark, layered background. “What's this? This is cool.”

“Oh, that.” She sighed and handed him a glass. “That's mine. I was messing around.”

“I like it.”

“Thanks. It's a little childish, but...you know. Can't be perfect every time.”

He took a swig from the glass. Gin and tonic, heavy on the tonic. She was either a lousy bartender or trying to keep him from getting more drunk. He repeated, “I like it,” and went back out to the living room.

Greg remembered little else from that, other than lighting a cigarette backwards and the harsh, oily smell of the burning filter. The only other thing he remembered was his own voice, talking and talking, until the sound began to exhaust him and he slid to the floor, his eyes shutting on their own accord.

He woke up with his face pressed into the dun-colored carpet. His head throbbed. He reached slowly for his glasses but couldn't find them.

“Fuck,” he said hoarsely, patting the floor around him.

“So you're up,” Jennifer said from somewhere above him.

“Barely,” Greg said. “Where are my fucking glasses?”

“Here.” She handed them to him. “I took them away for safekeeping.”

“Thank you.” He put them on and she came back into focus. She looked pissed. “I assume I'm not at my house.”

“That's right.” She moved away from him. “You've been here all night.”

“Oh, Jesus. I'm so sorry. Did anyone try to get me out?”

“Yeah. You were out cold. It was easier to just let you lie there.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Greg's head hurt. His stomach was churning. The light coming through the front windows was like a knife in his cerebral cortex. “I'm so sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I don't do shit like this normally.”

“Well, as long as you're sorry.” She came a little closer to him; the anger was being slowly replaced by concern. “It might be a while before I invite you anywhere again, though.”

“I don't blame you. Did I do anything? Take my clothes off or somethin'?”

“No. You weren't all that bad until you keeled over. I mean—” She began giggling. “Oh, shit. You have—the carpet left all these little waffle marks on your face.”

“Fucking great. Look, I'll take off now. And you know—” Don't grovel, Proops. You look like enough of an asshole already. “I'll see you guys around, I guess.”

“Are you sure? You really don't look well. I can take Henry's car and drive you home—”

An awkward car ride to his place while he tried to convince her he wasn't a total jerk and keep from barfing all at the same time sounded godawful. Greg forced a smile and said, “No, I'm okay, really.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The exercise'll do me good.”

"You sure?”

"Yeah. Um, thanks for inviting me to your party, I guess. Didn't mean to go all Jim Morrison on you.”

"Well, I'm glad you stayed away from our bathtub. Be careful getting home.” She followed him to the door. “You dope,” she said, smiling a little, and shut the door after him.

It took Greg almost an hour to walk home. Mike was just leaving the house when he finally got back. He stopped and looked down at Greg, smirking.

“Don't fucking start with me,” Greg said weakly. “You can do that later.”

“Try to keep from barfing on any of my shit when you get inside.”

Greg grunted and went into the house.


	3. The Name of Your Best Friend

Jennifer never did invite Greg back to her place. As repentance, Greg invited Henry and her to his housemate Amanda's birthday party; after that, Jennifer invited him to an art show by one of her friends. It continued from there, until he realized he had another friend on his hands.

The last party of his college career happened two days before graduation. It was at Jay 'n Bee's in The Mission. The rest of the group had crowded around the bar, and Greg and Jennifer were crammed into one of the booths. Greg was trying to eat a cheeseburger and Jennifer was stealing his fries.

“You know, I would have ordered you a plate,” he said.

“Mmm. Yours are better though.”

Jennifer still had a year to go before she graduated, but she'd come along with Henry, who'd promptly ditched her at the door to go see one of his other buddies. She didn't look too distressed, but every so often she'd raise her head and scan the crowd.

“You're staying in the city?” she said.

“Yeah. Getting yet another apartment with McShane and a couple other guys.”

“Bachelor pad.”

“And it will be swinging, believe you me.”

Jennifer grinned. He pointed at the fries on his plate. “Take some of these ones. They're not as greasy.”

“I will, thank you. But I'm going to use your fork. My fingers are being eaten away by all that salt you used.”

He gave her the fork. “Salt makes for healthy bodies.”

“Makes for dehydration, more like.” She stabbed at the fries. He looked at her. A stray strand of hair had fallen out of her ponytail, brushing against her cheekbone.

“So are we getting to the point where we both cry and say we'll keep in touch, but we never do?” Greg asked. “Cause I'm game if you are.”

Jennifer looked up. “Greg, don't look so worried.”

“I'm not worried. I'm just, you know, setting up a plan.”

“You're staying in town, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I'll be here. You and Mike can come around to my new place in a couple of months.”

“Yeah, how's Henry gonna take that?”

She shook her head and shrugged, affecting nonchalance.

“Jenny?” Greg said. He put down his burger. “What's...”

“Henry is,” she said, “going back to Nebraska in two weeks. Without me, I might add.”

“Oh, no,” Greg said. “I'm so sorry.” He didn't have room to turn around, so he gave her an awkward shoulder squeeze.

“I knew it was coming. I mean, you know, everyone always thinks they're going to grow up and meet the perfect person. Unfortunately it's not really possible.” She stabbed at his fries again.

“Well...” Greg was torn between diplomacy and making a joke. Diplomacy won out. “I mean, at least you're still buddies, right?”

“Please. I can't wait until he leaves.”

“Yeah. He's a weenie.”

Jennifer almost choked on his fries. “Greg.”

“No, I mean, he's a real weenie.”

Her shoulders twitched with suppressed laughter. “I shouldn't let you say that, but...”

“Your common sense gets the better of you?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

When the party broke up, and Henry left with Jennifer trailing behind him, Greg started staggering back home with Mike. Mike said, “Did you think about taking that job in the law office?”

Greg didn't answer, because what he was thinking about was the way the light hit Jennifer's hair when she turned her head.


	4. Man In Motion

Greg waited for Jennifer to get out of touch with him, but when it didn't happen after a year, he relaxed. They still ran in the same social circles and after two years she visited his apartment so often his housemates thought they were dating. The jokes didn't stop even when Greg started seeing a girl named Sasha. Sasha wasn't too pleased.

He was still trying to be an actor, even though it pissed him off more and more. Every time he got a standup gig, he spent half his stage time pissing and moaning about how much acting pissed him off. By the time Greg was twenty-five, the only time he enjoyed being an actor was when he could get up on a tiny stage in front of drunks and bitch about how awful it was.

He still wound up doing Shakespeare in the Park. It was hard to turn down what was essentially an actor's wet dream, even with his doubts shrieking louder and louder every day.

His girlfriend stood him up on opening day.

“I thought I told you I couldn't make it last night,” she said over the phone, as Greg stood and listened, half-thinking about going to get ready and half-wanting to throw a total fit.

“Sasha, you didn't tell me you couldn't make it last night because I didn't see you last night. Maybe you told some other dude, but it wasn't me.”

She ignored him. “Greg, I'll see if I can come tomorrow. I just have to go to Erica's today. She's freaking out over something. You know how it is.”

“No, I fucking don't.”

“Look, I'm sorry. I just can't make it. I mean, it's not a big deal. I read Merry Wives of Windsor, I know what happens.”

“Well, everything's just fine then. I have no idea why I'm pissed off right now. I mean, why should you come when you already know the plot? It's not like I asked you weeks ago to take one fucking afternoon and come out. It's not like it would be, like, important or anything.”

“Oh, Jesus. I'll talk to you about this later. Goodbye.” She hung up. Greg snarled and went to get ready.

After the show, his main focus was getting the fuck out of the park and finding a place to drink. He had just started down Conservatory Drive when he heard someone calling his name.

“Greg, wait up.”

He turned around. “Jennifer? I thought you were working today.”

“I got off early. Thought I'd come down and see some Shakespeare. Great job, by the way.” She came towards him, squinting in the late afternoon sun.

“Thanks,” Greg said awkwardly. “I didn't picture you as the theater geek type.”

“I usually try to keep that part of my personality cloaked. I thought it was safe to let it out for a few hours.” She grinned. “Where's Sasha? Why don't you two come out for some celebration drinking?”

Greg grunted in response.

“She's—is she here?”

“Not right now,” Greg said. “We're kinda—eh. I'll tell you about it when we're both old and gray.”

It still made him nervous to talk to Jennifer about serious relationship stuff. He could talk with her for hours about the Beastie Boys or the latest retrospective at the Red Vic, but the thought of detailing Sasha's wrongs made his throat go dry. He knew she liked having a funny friend; he doubted she wanted to see him being a crybaby.

Jennifer looked at him askance, but said, “Hey, rhododendrons. My father used to keep those,” pointing to them.

“Not the most graceful segue, Jennifer, but it works for me.” He grinned and looked at the flowers. Brilliant red and white blooms lined the exit to the street. “Those are all right.”

“Mmm. They're actually not my favorite flower; I like lilies more. Stargazers.” She turned around. “You know, Greg, if you'd prefer to be by yourself, it's all right with me.”

“Oh, no,” Greg said. “No, no, no. I'm all right. It's just, you know, doing Shakespeare or whatever. It's—whoo. Makes you want to go get drunk and rob a bank.”

“Can't trust that damned iambic pentameter. Want a burrito or something?”

“Forsooth. And then we shall hie to my beauteous apartment, where we shall laugh at the caperings of Scooby Doo and puff upon the stick of Thai on account of it being seriously good shit.”

She hooked her arm with his. “You dope.”


	5. Man Out of Time

_Never fucking come back to Utah_ , Greg told himself as he tried to open his hotel room door. _Even if they're giving away free cash and new cars, never fucking come back._

It wasn't as though he'd never had a gig go badly before. He'd come to regard hecklers as gnats more than people, trying to distract him. Usually a well-timed verbal swat was enough.

So he'd barely reacted when the drunk redneck in the front row managed to pick his head off the table long enough to call him a 'skinny little faggot.' Greg had turned around, said, “Pookie, I realize that in your closeted little she-asked-for-it-even-though-she's-my-sister world, calling me a faggot is a priceless lump of wit. So I'll go easy on you. Maybe someday you'll look around, take your dick out of the cow or the sheep or the oak tree or whatever the fuck you use down here and see the error of your ways. But right now, you're just showing me why I'm glad I went to college,” and moved to the other side of the stage, thinking that was the end of it.

He hadn't expected the guy to get up, snarling. He hadn't expected that the guy would take the stage. And he certainly hadn't expected the drunken fucker to take a swing at him.

Greg'd blocked the punch with the mike stand, and kept the guy at bay. What he remembered most was the sound of the club. Besides his own harsh breathing and the guy's slurred voice “—Break your faggot ass—” the club was silent. They sat calmly in their seats, watching as this asshole tried to murder him.

The bouncer had broken it up, coming up on stage, picking him up, carrying him back to the office while Greg thrashed and shouted, “Put me down, I'll fuckin' take him—” even while he knew he had no chance. The gig ended early.

He could see a bit in the whole episode. It was already half-formed in the back of his head— _So I'm up on stage, trying to bring some joy to people's lives, and this Goliath in the front row—I'm serious, he was wearing a loincloth and everything_ — he just needed to make some notes. He didn't need to mention that, three hours later, his hands were still shaking.

He got the door open and immediately headed for the desk by the window. He didn't want to look at the hotel room walls, or the TV, or at his half-open suitcase in the corner of the room. He just wanted to sit and get everything down before he could forget about it.

He hunched over the hotel stationary, scrawling down key words. Goliath, loincloth, dance of the drunken redneck...and then it dried up. Greg stared at the paper, covered in his sloppy shorthand, and the only thought that ran through his head was, _I don't fucking want to be funny anymore tonight_.

He took his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. _Just one bad night, just one fucking bad night, doesn't mean it'll always be this way._ He pushed the paper away from him.

Greg hauled himself out of the chair. _Two more days here. Who am I kidding? They'll string me up way before then._ What he wanted right now, more than anything, was to go back home. He wanted to go up the stairs to his apartment and shoot the shit with Mike, go to the movies with Jennifer, go back to work at the clubs he was used to, that welcomed him in instead of wanting him to screw up. He wanted to talk to someone real.

The hotel bedspread's cotton was sticky to the touch. Rather than think about why it was sticky, he kicked it off onto the floor and reached for the phone. In the good old days he would have called Sasha. For a moment he almost regretted breaking up with her. At least then he would have someone to talk to. He called his apartment instead, hoping someone would be home.

The ringing went on forever before Mike picked up, sounding harassed. “Hello?”

“Hey, buddy,” Greg said. “What's going on?”

“Proops? I thought you were still in Utah. Where are you, you bastard?”

“Still in Utah.” It was a relief to hear a familiar voice; he was beginning to feel seriously disconnected, as though he were in a fishbowl. “I just, you know, I just wanted to see if I had any messages or anything.”

“A couple.” Mike paused to think. “Um...They're written down somewhere around here. I can get them for you.”

“Oh, no, that's all right. I was just checking.” He realized how lame that sounded. “If the phone was still working or whatever.”

“Greg—” Mike's voice dropped almost imperceptibly. “How's it going out there?”

He didn't want to go into it. Not with Mike. “It's going, man. That's about all I can say.”

He could almost see Mike considering the statement on the other end of the line. “You doing okay, buddy?” He was worried. Greg felt like an asshole.

“Oh, yeah, I'm fine. I'm really fine.”

He heard another, more muffled voice on the other end of the line. Mike said, “I'm just talking to Greg.”

“Oh, do you have a guest or something?”

“Jennifer's here. We're watching this movie on TV...what was it?” Jennifer's muffled voice said something else. “You want to say hello to her?”

“McShane, you're doing something right now, I shouldn't—”

“Hang on.” He heard Mike saying, “Want to talk to him?”

Jennifer came on. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetie,” Greg said. “How are you?”

“I'm doing all right. How was Utah?”

“Still there. At the moment, kiddo, I'm lying in a hotel room in beautiful downtown Provo.”

“Oh, sounds terribly glamorous. How was the show?”

“All right. What movie are you watching?”

“Um...it's My Man Godfrey. Greg, are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sound...shitty, if I may be blunt.”

“I'm just tired.”

“Greg...” He heard her moving on the other end. “You know, you don't always need to be funny.”

“I'm doing a fucking good job of not being funny now.”

“That's right.” Her voice was gentle. “I don't mind it. What happened?”

He waited a long time before answering, staring up at the ceiling. “Shitty gig. Shitty, shitty gig.”

“I'm sorry, Greg.”

“It's just...” He took off his glasses and put them on the bedside table. “It's just, like, everyone wants me to fail, you know? I'm not fucking George Carlin. It doesn't even matter how much time I spend up there. I'm not an actor and I'm barely a comic and it's just not good enough.” He sat up, staring at his shoes. “Jenny, I'm not good enough.”

“Oh, honey,” she said. “Honey, that isn't true.”

She'd never called him 'honey' before. It was a shock. “I mean, I know you're going to say I'm just feeling sorry for myself. And you're my friend so you're going to tell me that I shouldn't give up, and everything like that. If you break things down, it really doesn't make sense for me to keep doing this shit. It's not helping anyone.”

“Greg, listen to yourself. So you're going to stop completely? You're going to come home and work in an office for the rest of your life? Spend time doing someone's taxes or selling houses? Would you enjoy doing that?”

The image of himself, stuck in an office building at forty, flashed before him. “No.”

“I think you'd go stark screaming crazy. Greg, you're so _funny_. I know you're lonely out there. And things go wrong. But if you stopped, you'd be miserable.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“You're doing the Faultline show in, what, a week?”

“Yeah.”

“Come home, Greg. We miss you here. I miss you. Utah just doesn't know how good you are.”

“Yeah. Enjoy the movie.”

“You're going to be okay? I don't have to hang up now.”

“I'll be okay.”

“All right. I'll see you in a few days.”

“Tell McShane to make sure my room isn't trashed.” He paused for a minute. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

When she hung up, he realized how close he'd come to saying, “I love you,” and how much he meant it.

_My life doesn't need to be this fucking complicated._


	6. Love For Tender

He managed to scrape up enough money to get his own apartment. Faultline was coming to an end as a group. Mike had already moved on to Theatresports; Greg was thinking about doing the same. Jennifer was still painting, selling what she could. He still hadn't worked up the nerve to officially ask her out.

He went with her to the Bazaar Café, where she had a few paintings showing. “It's a little crass,” she said. “People try to sit and drink their coffee and you try to subliminally persuade them to buy your stuff.”

“The perils of capitalism,” Greg said.

It was two o'clock on a Tuesday and the café was almost empty. Wedged into an uncomfortable chair across from Jennifer, Greg said, “So tell me which ones are yours.”

She smiled. “Are you going to prop up my ego?”

“Of course.”

“Make a really big deal out of them. Loudly. Then maybe the manager will bump them up to better spots.”

“Maybe I could pretend to be an art critic. Make a makeshift pipe, stick napkins on my elbows to look like tweed, uh, chew on my glasses thoughtfully, mention Mondrian in every sentence, and everyone'll be suitably impressed.”

“Do you want to see this shit or not?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. There's that one on the far right, the one by the door, and the one on the opposite wall.” Jennifer pointed.

He turned his head. “Which one do you like the best?”

She shrugged. “I think the one by the door.”

“The one with the red?” Greg squinted a bit. The painting was small; it was difficult for him to make out the details. “Mind if I go take a look at 'em?”

“Sure. Should I order for you? What do you want?”

“Just coffee.” He got up and looked at her paintings. The one Jennifer had targeted as her favorite looked deceptively sedate at first, muted shades of red and slate swirling into each other, but with zigzag flashes of white shooting through them. The red paint had the texture of a dried flower. The other paintings had the same experiments with texture. He paused the longest in front of the one on the far right; the black paint had the quality of a new penny, struggling with feathery strokes of purple. Greg went back to the table. She motioned him to the coffee.

“What'd you think?”

“I like them.” She smiled. Greg said, “I might buy that one over there.” He pointed to the one on the far right. “The one with the black.”

She stopped stirring her tea and stared at him. “I thought you were on a budget.”

“I am. This'll go into the house-decorating budget.”

“Greg, it's fifty bucks. You can get a nice toaster or something and it'll do just as well.”

He grinned at her. “Don't worry about what I put in my apartment.” He got up and went to the counter, taking out his credit card.

When he came back, carrying the painting, Jennifer shook her head at him. “I know I said you should prop up my ego, but this is way too much of a favor. I'll pay you back.”

“C'mon, Jennifer. I like it. It's good. I want to hang it up on my wall.”

Jennifer smiled mischievously at him. “You probably just want to use it to impress all those girls you bring home. Look like a knowledgeable man-about-town.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I want it because it's beautiful.”

She looked stunned. He started to feel embarrassed and mumbled, “Well, I can buy a painting now and again.”

“I just...I didn't...I've never seen this side of you before.”

“I try to keep it under wraps. Don't tell anybody.” He swallowed the rest of his rapidly-cooling coffee. “Want to help me get this home?”


	7. In Ignorant Heaven

Greg was going to take the plunge. He paced his apartment, chain-smoking, waiting for Jennifer to come up. The ostensible reason was that they were going to watch Curse of the Cat People on TV and eat Chinese food, but the real reason was that he was going to stop screwing around and officially ask her out. He felt like he was going to throw up.

_A lot of people go out with their friends. I mean, we've both been in enough relationships to know how shit works. Who's to say it won't be fine? And who's to say it won't go down in flames like everything else and she won't even want to be friends with me anymore...Shut up, Proops._

Someone knocked on his door. He shook his head and crushed out his cigarette, calling, “Just a second.”

When he opened the door, Jennifer was rummaging in her purse. She looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“Were you in the middle of something?”

“What? Oh, no. Come on in.”

She walked in, shaking off her jacket, and suddenly she was just Jennifer again, not the amorphous stranger he'd been building her up to be for the past hour. He felt himself growing calm. She glanced around the apartment. “Why, Greg, you've spruced up the place. There isn't a pizza box in sight.”

“Yeah, you know, occasionally I make an effort.” He went to the phone. “What do you want for dinner? I was gonna call Imperial Garden.”

“Remind me to teach you how to cook one of these days. If it wasn't for takeout, you'd starve to death.” She settled on the couch. “I don't know, something with chicken?”

“Oh, it's okay, Jennifer. Please, you don't need to go into detail. Be as vague as you'd like.” She laughed. “What about that thing with the bamboo shoots and asparagus? How's that sound to you?”

“I think my ordering technique is impeccable. The bamboo shoots are great.”

He ordered the food, only half-listening to the guy on the other end. When he hung up he wondered what he was going to say. He'd planned speeches for this moment, long, flowery pronouncements of love, and now he felt like he didn't need them. She was here, she was still the woman he loved, but above all, she was his friend. He felt like he didn't need to pontificate.

Greg went over to the sofa. She looked up at him, smiling.

“You remember when I did Merry Wives of Windsor?”

“Yeah. You were upset about Sasha and you were too shy to tell me.”

“I wasn't shy. I was just kind of—never mind. Anyway, you said something, what kind of flowers you liked...it wasn't roses, that's all I know. I can't remember what they were.”

“I don't—Greg, what's going on? Why are you bringing this up?”

“I'm getting to it. What were the flowers again?”

“I think I said lilies. Stargazer lilies.”

“I'm sorry I didn't get you lilies, Jenny.”

Her eyes widened. “Greg?”

“I got you lilacs.” He went into the kitchen. The flowers were wrapped in clear plastic, tiny purple blooms pressing against the wrap. He brought them out.

She was still sitting on the sofa, looking at her hands. He held them out to her.

He said, “I hope this doesn't count as a strike against me. I'll remember everything you say from now on.”

She took the lilacs and began to cry.

“Aw, Jesus,” Greg said. He sat down, afraid to touch her, his hands twisting around each other. “Jenny, don't. I mean, it's all right, isn't it? It's okay?”

She nodded. She was crying but she was laughing at the same time, looking at the flowers. “You dope,” she said through the tears, “you dope.”

He put his arms around her. She pressed her face against his shoulder, laughing now, more than she was crying.

“I was afraid you were gonna tell me to fuck off,” Greg said. “Or think I was kidding.”

“Mmm.” She wrapped her arms around his waist. “You're so skinny.”

He tilted her head up. She smiled. He kissed her, once, experimentally, tentatively, just to see what it felt like. She nestled closer.

She felt exactly right to him.


End file.
